


a perfect form in perfect rest

by valety



Category: Odin Sphere
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, POV Second Person, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10080314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: Oswald wakes up first one morning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for implied/referenced past abuse and references to consent issues
> 
> I haven’t been able to write for a bit due to a combination of school stuff + wrist problems, but I’ve been _so_ busy lately that I decided I deserved a treat. so!! some quick (?) married couple fluff

Morning finds you with Gwendolyn’s hand held fast in yours. The light that slips through the curtains catches on her hair and makes it gleam like silk, and although the first thing you feel may be her slender, calloused palm in yours, it is her hair, made of moonlight, that is the first thing you see.

With your free hand, you reach for a lock that has slipped over her shoulders and bring it to your lips. It’s a silly thing to do, but she is beautiful, all of her, even the tumbled head of hair that she will likely ask for your help brushing when she awakens.

That used to be Myris’ job, you think with something like a smile. You usurped that position long ago, back when you and Gwendolyn were first beginning to experiment with the concept of _freedom._ There had been many rules and rituals the two of you had been taught to abide by, but one by one, you’d helped each other disregard them all. This castle is yours, after all, and there is no one who will punish or abandon you for failing to obey their orders. If you want to be the one to run your fingers through Gwendolyn’s hair each morning, indulgently smoothing down her long, pale curls, then so long as she consents, there is nobody who can stop you.

You let the lock of hair fall. Still she does not awaken, but her sleep is different than the sleep that had once held her captive. Before, she’d lain perfectly still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Her already-pale skin had been unnaturally white, and with her cheeks empty of any colour, she’d reminded you of a porcelain doll. The fact that she had still breathed had only made it clear to you how desperately she’d needed to be saved. But now, she sleeps on her side, body curled towards you as her eyelids flicker with dreaming.

You wonder what she dreams about.

Your own dreams have long been stained with darkness, even back before you’d learnt what it meant for your arm to scream whenever you held your blade. In your early years, you’d dreamt often of loneliness, and even after you'd become the Shadow Knight, it had remained a recurring theme, with your nightmares being less of what you were becoming and more about your fears of who would have you once the darkness came. 

You dream now most often of bluebirds. 

You hope that whatever Gwendolyn is dreaming, it’s as kind to her as your dreams of late have been to you.

Once again, you feel the corners of your mouth turn upwards. Smiling now is easier than it used to be; perhaps you’re getting used to it. The thought is a pleasant one, and that, too, is something that you must be getting used to. Pleasant thoughts, as opposed to wretched ones or lonely ones, are almost as alien to you as the simple domesticity of sharing your bed with another. For you to have had so many in such quick succession this morning feels like a triumph.

You know that she is the cause of it. So long as she remains by your side, then all will be well. She is the centre of this small world, and so long as she is willing to wear your ring, then you, too, will be allowed to stay. And that is what is so beautiful about it—you already know that she will hold fast. If the stories are true, then Gwendolyn has been a force to be reckoned with since the day she was born. If she is the centre, then your world shall never collapse.  

There is something so very powerful about that thought when coupled with the sight of her peaceful sleeping face. Something reassuring.

You are not used to feeling reassured. You are not used to feeling safe. You are not used to _wanting_ to feel safe, to wanting to preserve a moment of peace as long as possible. You’ve known blood and war and violence, but never tenderness, yet you desire only tenderness with her, and your hands have become gentle enough that they are able to reach out and caress her cheek without waking her.

In her sleep, Gwendolyn sighs. You feel a surge of longing. You want to kiss the sleep from her mouth, but you do not want to do so while she’s sleeping. You swore to yourself that you would never do such a thing again. You want to always be able to see her eyes while kissing her; you want to feel her kiss you _back._

It’s as though your thoughts manage to reach her through her slumber somehow, for a moment later, Gwendolyn shifts. Her eyelids flutter, and then her eyes are open and she’s looking at you and all you can see is a blue so deep it’s almost black. Your hand tightens instinctively.

“Good morning, Oswald,” she murmurs, and your heart beats thick. You doubt you will ever stop being so affected by the sound of your name in her voice.

“Good morning, Gwendolyn,” you reply, and she smiles, taking the hand she still holds—she could hold it forever, if she felt so inclined, you would not mind—and bringing it to her lips. She doesn’t kiss it, but simply holds it there, breath warm against your knuckles, a gesture so affection that something catches in your throat.

“May I kiss you?” you ask.

“You do not have to ask,” she replies, amused.

You do, even if she doesn’t understand why. You would do anything for her, and that includes reminding her that she has a choice in all things. You refuse to allow either one of you to fall back into those old obedient roles that you are now trying to shed. Even something as small as the presumption of permission cannot be allowed. 

Your silence is your reply. Now sounding more fond than amused, Gwendolyn says, “Of course you may.”

You angle your face towards hers. She meets you halfway, brushing her lips against your own as you do the same for her. The kiss is warm and deep, and it’s as though it relieves some ache you had not known was there, the way every kiss you share with Gwendolyn does.

You feel sometimes as though you would never be in pain again if you could somehow always be kissing her. Forget your old wounds, forget your bad dreams. She can be the cure.  

When you are sated, you draw back. Her breath is still warm on yours and her face still very, very close when she asks, “May I confess something?”

“Certainly, Gwendolyn," you say. She could tell you anything and you would listen gladly, hungry as you are for every scrap of information she’s willing to share about the self who is not simply Odin’s Witch. Still, you recognize the undercurrent of reluctance in her voice; her pride won’t allow her to speak if she thinks she might be met with dismissal or disapproval. To ask at all is in itself a sign of trust.  

With an embarrassed laugh, Gwendolyn says, “I almost do not want to get up this morning.”

“There is nothing so very odd about that,” you readily reply. “I feel the same. I’m perfectly happy being here with you.”

A blush colours her cheeks, and she asks, “Must you be so charming this early in the morning?

“I think you’d be the only one in Erion who’d say that,” you answer gravely. “Not many seem to think me particularly charming.”

“Well, they don’t know you,” Gwendolyn says, and then it is your turn to feel your face grow hot with the threat of a blush. “But that is not the point. The bed is very comfortable, is it not?”

“It is,” you agree.

“Then…perhaps we can sleep a little longer.”

And with a smile, you say, “I would like that.”

Before, she had lain on her side, curled towards you. Now she draws closer, close enough to rest her head against your chest. You slip your arms around her waist, pulling her close, and she sighs, a contented sound. You press a kiss against her hair, a silent promise to be there when she awakens. So long as she wants you, you think, then you will be there.

Through the gap in the curtains, you can see the sky as it's painted with streaks of rose, signalling the coming day. In the distance, you hear the birdsong coming from the feeders you and Gwendolyn strung throughout the garden. You know that Brom and Myris must already be awake; perhaps they’re even wondering where you are.

But none of that matters right now. And with Gwendolyn enfolded in your arms, warm and breathing and _real,_ you settle back into your pillows, back into the golden light of sleep.


End file.
